Deliverance
by grazed fingertips
Summary: In which Beacon Hills is a metropolis, The Pack are a vicious street gang, and Scott accidentally initiates himself, relying on Stiles to save his ass. / All human AU. / WORK IN PROGRESS.


Stiles had grown up in this sprawling suburban mess. He'd grown up with the rumors, the whispers, and the fear. The scrawled, spiking tags and empty beer cans that littered the alleyways. The 'bloodied' wolf paw prints on appropriate corners and the vine covered crossbows on the others. He'd grown up with the stories of The Pack and The Hunters. The bloodthirsty rival gangs, ruthless and unashamed of what they did. He'd grown up with his father going out every day and returning with another story about them, another tale of carnage and killing and somewhat twisted beliefs. He'd grown up with the knowledge that the world was unkind, unforgiving, and unapologetic, and he'd never once been led to believe otherwise.

But that didn't mean he was prepared for this. Prepared to come home to his best friend sitting on his bed with a bloody paw print stamped above his heart and a sheepish look on his face. The one that said 'Stiles I've fucked up big time and I need your help'. No way in hell did growing up with that shit prepare him to be thrust into the middle of a turf war dating back generations. To be made to lie to his father, the only family he had left. To cheat and steal and destroy and ruin and break every law in his father's handbook, do everything he'd thought he'd leave behind untouched when he went off to college. But no. Evidently the universe had been training him up for this day, because he'd be lying if he said the prospect didn't intrigue and excite him on some fucked up level. It was like the sun had risen and shone a new light on the city he called his home. Like a personalized advertisement had been plastered on the billboard across the road from his house.

_Welcome to Beacon Hills, population 7, 446, 891 and counting. You are just one of these people. And your life is about to begin._

* * *

Stiles hated the journey home. It'd be quicker to walk half the time, but far more risky. His beat up old jeep didn't attract attention. Didn't make him a target. His scrawny pale ass walking down alleyways all alone though… That made him prime sporting entertainment.

He was always beaten up when he was younger because he just looked so very weak. The fact his dad was chief of police made no difference whatsoever. In fact it may have even spurred a few kids on, getting one over on the pigs, the ones who put their mother, father, brother, sister, uncle, auntie or cousin in jail for whatever stupid thing they'd done. He was used to hearing muttered names accompanying the kicks to his stomach or mutters about revenge with the feeling of cold hard wall slamming into the side of his head. He was forever coming home with split lips and black eyes and his mom would fret and his dad would sit him down and ask him for names. Descriptions. Anything, and he'd give him this look. This oh so very pitying look. One that made Stiles' blood boil and had him bite his tongue and shake his head because if there was one thing Stiles hated it was feeling helpless. Feeling like he couldn't do anything to help other people or himself. He didn't want pity. He never wanted pity. Not when he was diagnosed with ADD. Not when he walked into class or came home from school with blackened eyes and aching ribs and bloodied gums. Not when his mom died.

And that was when the ache started. The one that settled in the hollow of his chest that seemed to bathe everything in pure and simple numbness. And he was saved by the blast of a horn from the car behind, making him jump and flail a little and hurriedly start up the engine, move on down the street, following the same route he took everyday and feeling the same amount of crushing depression at the sight of the city he called home.

Some people love the place they grow up in, others don't. And both of those things are totally okay. But Stiles loathed Beacon Hills with a passion. It was filthy, over crowded and totally unsafe, and that's not a jab at his dad. His dad's been brilliant. Since he'd been appointed, crime had actually dropped significantly. But that didn't change their standing on the national statistics. They were still number one for crime by a long shot. And it was because of these fucking gangs.

Everywhere you looked you'd see symbols and colors. To the untrained eye they'd look like simple graffiti pieces or paint jobs. But to a long time resident or someone well versed in the history of this place, you'd know that this was territorial. Either the Pack or the Hunters owned this stretch.

The Pack had a paw print as their insignia, which would never fail to make Stiles snort in amusement. But it was a cool paw print; he'd give them that. Wolf. With claw pinpricks and a bloodied effect. It'd be on street corners and in shop windows and it'd always be red. That was their color, and it always had been. They'd been around for what felt like forever, and so had their rivals The Hunters.

Their symbol was a crossbow, covered in vines with small blue flowers, which Stiles didn't see as particularly menacing, if he's being honest. Like The Packs, it marked their territory. You couldn't wear Pack colors in a Hunter zone unless you wanted to tempt fate, and vice versa. The Hunters had silver, and if you were wearing that in a Pack zone you needed to watch yourself. A kid at school named Matt had owned a silver car, parked it in a Pack zone, and came back to find it smashed and battered with red paint splashed all over it. You could say that the gangs were passionate about their business. So passionate that law didn't apply to their thought processes, and Stiles' dad often came home with a tale of yet another body with gang tattoo's found dumped in an alley or a drive by shooting in a Pack zone, and it'd been interesting for the first 14 or so years of Stiles' life but he was tired now. He wanted to leave it all behind. Everything about this city had to go. But he still had a few more years before he could make a realistic escape and that haunted him every day.

So it was with a bone weary sigh far too heavy for his 16 years that he dragged himself up to his room. Pushing to door open, chucking his bag on the floor and grappling with the button of his jeans, totally ready to strip and flop right into bed.

"Dude! No!" A cry from the bed had his head snapping up and hand searching for anything that could be used against the intruder. "Sorry! Sorry… My bad." Scott, his best friend, shot him a sheepish grin

"Not cool." Stiles shook his head a little, breathing evening out and pulse slowing. "Not cool at all, Scott. Where the fuck've you been?"

Scott opened his mouth, and then shut it again, exhaling slowly. "I've done something stupid, Stiles."

And he had the look on his face. The one Stiles had grown to be wary of since third grade when Scott stole Jackson's new shoes for a joke, and got caught throwing them in the dumpster. He'd been challenged to a fight in the playground at recess and he'd called Stiles in for reinforcement. He'd gone home with a broken collarbone, a snapped tooth and the look on Scott's face when he'd asked for help engraved in his memory and shoved in the 'bad things' part of his prain.

He took a few moments to consider his response, and the curiosity and need to help his friend overruled his rational side. "How stupid?"

Scott slowly started unbuttoning his shirt, and Stiles' eyebrows shot up. "Dude no." But he was ignored. "How is it okay for you to strip in my room and not-" But he shut up when he saw just what Scott'd been talking about. The extent of his stupidity was there in black and red ink, stark against his tanned skin. It was fresh, still healing and slightly raised, rising and falling with each breath. A paw print. Wolf. With claw pinpricks and a bloodied effect. Sat right above his heart.

Stiles blinked slowly, almost owlishly. And his stare travelled from the tattoo back up to Scott's face, which still had that fucking look plastered on it. "You joined The Pack?" It was monotonous, not betraying the terror that he was experiencing, or the anger, or the worry, or the slight jealousy which really confused him because why, exactly, would he want to be a part of a bloodthirsty street crew that were totally fine with maiming someone for wearing a grey t-shirt inside one of their Chinese takeaways?

"It was an accident."

"How the fuck do you accidentally initiate yourself, Scott?" His voice was slowly rising as he started to pace. "Please, do explain, because I can't quite wrap my head around the fact you are part of a murderous street crew. And it was a fucking accident."

"Stiles. Calm down." Scott was quickly buttoning up his shirt again and rising to join him.

"Calm down? Calm down?! My dad is the chief of police, if you haven't noticed. And you are now a member of a crew he's been trying to break since before I was born! How am I supposed to be calm? How the fuck are _you_ calm?!"

Scott twitched, before sitting down heavily and running a hand through his hair. "I'm not. I think I'm still in the denial stage. I don't even remember getting this thing done! How can I forget having a tattoo done?"

"Maybe they drugged you?"

"They asked me to smell something. A rag. Asked me if it smelt like chloroform."

Stiles could've punched him in the face about that time. He sat next to him.

"Yepp, that explains it." Scott blinked at him, hands clasped tightly in his lap and looking so forlorn that Stiles sighed, bumping the boys shoulder with his own. "I'm going to help you, Scott. How couldn't I?" Scott managed a small, apologetic smile. "First things first, how exactly did you accidentally join The Pack?"

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_Please review! _


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